Today the kiddo and I had a totally cool post-Thanksgiving feast. It involved a turkey and some sweet taters and stuffing and corn and the coolest pie on the planet -- and even some fizzy apple/grape drink that we toasted with and drank from glasses meant for red wine. Some day in the not-so-distant future, I will actually let him try champagne for the first time. But 9 is still a little young for that. That's the happy part of the day.
The sad part came courtesy of NPR at around 4:30 this morning. I sleep with my clock radio on so that I can fall asleep to the BBC World Service, and wake up to Morning Edition. Today, the NPR announcer calmly told me in my half-sleep that Pat Morita had died Thursday. I'm surprised at how much it bugged me. I mean, this is just another reminder of how old I'm getting to be. Another part of my childhood gone. Another brick in the wall. (Damn, now I'm just getting morose, huh?) Anyway, I feel like I've lost my sensei -- the guy who made the martial arts seem cool to me, instead of scary. When I start my karate class at the YMCA soon, I shall be thinking fondly of "wax on, wax off" and bonsai trees and catching flies with chopsticks on the first try. Requiescat in pace, Miyagi-san.
No comments:
Post a Comment